People's Pilot, Volume 3, Number 23, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 24 November 1893 — The Deaeon's Thanks giving Sermon. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

The Deaeon's Thanks giving Sermon.

T was the evenChilli in £ before * llThanksgiving, 5(0 and De ac o n D rown sat the head of the long, bountifully spread supper table, around which had gathered a goodly array of sons and sons-in-law, daughters and daughters-in-law, and grandchildren. The good old man surveyed the scene with evident pride and satisfaction. They were discussing the merits and demerits of the various Thanksgiving sermons they had heard. “Children,” said the deacon, taking advantage of a momentary lull in the conversation, ‘Tm going to preach a Thanksgiving sermon to-morrow morning. I’ve heard a good many Thanksgiving discourses in my day,” continued Deacon Brown, apparently unmindful of the astonished looks that were directed toward him, “but the sermon that I shall preach to-morrow will be better, more eloquent, more full of the spirit of praise and thanksgiving, than any to which you or I ever listened. ” The meek, child-like old man was so little given to boasting, and the field in which he proposed to engage was so foreign to his habits and occupations, that his listeners looked one to another m amazement, with the exception of “mother,” whose sereue face reflected back the loving smile in the eyes that met her own. “Into how many heads is your discourse to be divided, uncle?” inquired his Nephew Charles, who, having been at college, considered himself qualified to discuss most any subject. “Let me see,” said the deacon, counting his fingers. “There’s the Widow Jones, who lives on the hill, that’s one; there’s the Widow Barker, down by the canal, that’s two; there’s Joe Blackmer, who’s laid up with the rumatiz, that’s three; there’s old Mrs. Blanchard, that’s four; there’s the crippled soldier’s family, that’s five; and there’s 81 Smith, who has more

months than bread to put in ’em, that’s six. Is that all, mother? You helped me make them out, you know.” “I think so," was the smiling response. “My sermon will have six heads, Nephew Charles, if not more,” resumed the deacon; “heads that cannot only think and feel, but discourse most eloquently, as soon you will find." John, the oldest son, glanced smilingly across the table at his wife, whose eyes were fixed wonaeringly upon him. “What is your text, father?" “ ‘He that hath pity on the poor lendeth to the Lord,’ ” responded the deacon, in low and reverent tones, which hushed, momentarily, the ripple of laughter which ran round. “You seetfi to have a good deal of confidence in that kind of security, father,” said Thomas, the second son; “to my certain knowledge, you've invested more in that bank than in any other.” “I’ve abundant reason for my confi-

dence, my son. The’ rest ot my text contains a promise, ‘that which he hath given will He pay him again.’ What better paymaster can a man have than the Author and Giver of all good? Ann I can truly say that I have been doubly repaid—in my heart, in my home, in my children, as well as in the more enduring riches that are laid up for those who think upon His commandments to do them. Don’t be afraid to invest in this bank, my children. Begin now in your youth, and when your hair is white as mine see if what your old father tells you is not true.” In accordance with the intimation given them when he bade them good night, Deacon Brown called “the boys” up the next morning as soon as it was oaylight; said “boys” being all strong, stalwart men, some of them with heads higher than his own. However reluctant they might feel to leave their warm beds at that early hour, the young men promptly obeyed the summons. Guided by the sound of the old man’s voice, they gathered at the open door of the pleasant kitchen, where the fragrant odor of coffee and broiled chicken gave token of the substantial breakfast that was preparing for them.

Deacon Brown stood by the stove, watching his wife as she bustled from table to pantry, and from pantry to closet “Such delicious mince pies as you make, mother; I counted twenty-five on the pantry shelf. I noticed, too, that the big churn is full of doughnuts, such doughnuts as can’t be beat anywhere!” The good woman smiled. Forty years of loving companionship had made her husband’s heart as easily read as an open book. “You’ll find a dozen of those pies, Jabob, on the long table in the hall, together with a pan of doughnuts, half a cheese, and some packages of tea and sugar. I guess you’ll know what to do with ’em.” The old man’s face fairly glowed with joy and satisfaction. “I think I shall, Polly. Poor souls! won’t it be a treat to them? Perhaps bringing a thought of the Giver of all good to some darkened mind that seldom thinks of Him. And won’t it make our own Thanksgiving dinner taste better—eh, good wife? It is so like you to do more than is asked or expected. But it will all come back again.” Here the deacon caught a glimpse of the smiling faces that were looking in upon them from the open door. “Good morning, children! You are on hand, I see. I would have let you sleep longer, but there’s my Thanksgiving sermon, you know, and I shall need your assistance in giving it point and effect” “We are all ready, sir,” was the prompt reply. “Only tell us what to do.” “You, Son John, and Nephew Charles, will please put the yoke of oxen to the big sled, loading it with three cords of hard, dry wood. Son Andrew, you may go up the attic and bring down some turkeys that you will find hanging by the chimney. Sons Robert and Henry may harness Nelly and Kate to the double sleigh, and, taking out the back seat, put into it the barrel of apples and bags of meal and flour that you will find in the storeroom as you go in. By that time breakfast will be ready, and you hungry enough to enjoy it.” After breakfast the products of Mrs. Brown’s culinary skill, the cheese and groceries in tempting array upon the long table in the hall, were all tucked snugly away in the sleigh, under the buffaloes; for neither the good woman nor her husband were among those who did their alms “to be seen of men.” The two elder boys had a seat in the

slsigh with their father, while the other three young men mounted the load of wood. And now, in the visible delight of all who had a hand in it, Deacon Brown’s thanksgiving sermon was fairly under way, “mother” and “the girls" standing out on the porch, and with their smiles and good wishes cheering it on its errand of love and mercy. I wish we had time to go along with it, and hear the words of hope and cheer that brought light and comfort to so many darkened and sorrowing hearts. It was truly a Thanksgiving sermon all the way through. “My Master sent me with these tokens of His love and care for you," was the simple salutation of the good old man at each house he entered. And to all the faltered thanks and blessings of the amazed and delighted recipients he had only one response: “Offer your thanksgivings to the Lord; give Him the praise.” Reader, you whom the Lord has blessed with abundant means, is there

no thanksgiving sermon for you to preach? Are there no poor in ytrar midst for whom you can make a day of real thanksgiving and praise? ’ There is a day of mortal pain and weakness that must come to all. Happy will it be for you, then, if you can lay hold of this gracious promise: “Blessed is he that considereth the poor; the Lord will make all his bed in sickness." —Mary Grace Halpine, in N. Y. Weekly.

THE SERMON WAS WELL UNDER WAY.